I Wanted the Crazy-Beautiful
by MelanijaParadis
Summary: Hermione and Ron graduate from Hogwarts; Hermione embarks on postgraduate studies in a muggle university in England, and Ron is transferred to Switzerland for his work. Hermione has a very...risqué imagination. Studying does not induce stress for this lovely lady; quite the contrary. It is quite the turn-on…
1. Midnight Dreaming

**Post-Visit: Imaginings at Midnight**

_Her handsome, nerdy-and-irresistibly-sexy Ron was under her, drawing her closer to his manhood until nothing lay between them. She rocked back and forth, an exquisitely carnal act of hope, love, and pure desire, stroking his arms, his elbows, and nuzzling his most sensitive inner area of his neck. He grabbed her thighs so forcefully she gasped—was it from pain or sheer pleasure? Perhaps both. Probably both. _

_She leaned forward, breasts lightly swaying of their own accord, as she drew a deep kiss and he swept a curly lock of hair from her freckled cheek. She gasped as he drew a finger into her, increasing his pace. She imagined for a moment what it would be like if, instead of his finger, it was his cock, thrusting into her. She could sense herself growing wetter, as he removed his finger from within her, and drew it into her wanting mouth. She accepted, biting ever-so-slightly, as she French-kissed her essence with her vanilla-scented lips. _

Hermione moaned softly, grinding her petite hips into the sheathed feathers, picking up her pace, as the minutes drew further and further together, until—all at once—she gasped and awoke from her climax.

It was midnight, and Hermione could feel the downy bedsheets crumple together where her heat lay beneath.

_Damn it, another wet dream._

After graduation from Hogwarts, Hermione found herself at a muggle university in the UK doing postgraduate studies, and Ron was transferred to Switzerland in the Ministry of Magic's Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Department with his father (this time, magicked cuckoo clocks had attacked young lying muggles, turning them into Pinocchio look-alikes). The plethora of magicked cuckoo clocks, together with a population predisposed to such childish behaviour made matters even more urgent.

Hermione had just returned from visiting Ron in his flat in Zurich, but dammit, she was so horny…and there was nothing they could do about it until his next vacation—in two month's time.


	2. Skype, a Broken Heater, and Horny

**Skype Date/Sex**

Ron looked down at his mobile device that was buzzing on the table; he always found such non-magic adaptive contraptions interesting. He and his father had been forced to do emergency inspections of cherry oak and mahogany cuckoo clocks in Zurich, and needed to remain undercover (aka: no magic) to avoid attracting unwanted attention of muggle newspapers and various other forms of non-magic media. _All it took was a single Twitter tweet, and everything magic could be exposed_. Ron cringed at the very thought. It had been a frustrating week—one cuckoo bird changed a child's ear into an oaken limb, and another clock had knocked an elderly lady unconscious and turned her wailing grandchild into a very-pigtailed Pinocchio.

Ron checked his mobile messages. _One new message,_ the screen read. He clicked on the message icon, and a text popped up.

_I'm writing another fanfic. –H._

Ron's frown transformed into a cheeky grin. To him, fanfics (or Fanfiction) was the literature version of fudge treacle, drizzled with molten hot dark chocolate syrup with whipped cream and a luscious, tart cherry on top. _Delicious_ _pleasure of the guiltiest kind._

Initially, he had no idea what fanfics were—until, during one bout of particularly lusty snogging, when Hermione mentioned such writings comprised of bits of humour…and a smidgen of literotica. And that she oft wrote such pieces under the pseudonym of 'Melanija.' _Merlin's beard—a beautiful, brilliant witch, a captivating lover, and an erotica-writer—was there anything this woman couldn't do? _He set his phone down in his dimly-lit office, surrounded from floor-to-ceiling with boxes upon boxes of black market cuckoo clocks.

…..

Skype Sex—Melanija

_She turned off all of the lights in her bedroom, save for the smallest, located in front of her laptop. The heater was turned to its highest setting, and she was only wearing a spaghetti-strap silken black tank top and Victoria's Secret lacy grey underwear. She sat on her cushioned chair, legs splayed, knowing her companion was in for an interesting evening._

_She heard the familiar beep of the Skype phone call. It was him, from a different country, three hours away or so. It was ten in the evening where she was, but eleven where he lived. She uttered a shaky sigh. 'Twas silly really. Should she have told him in advance what she was going to do over Skype? Or was spontaneity ideal? She supposed she would find out tonight, at this very time, at this very  
moment._

_His head and shoulders were visible through the computer screen. They grinned at each other. 'So—' she said with a half-whisper, 'my heater's malfunctioning tonight. It's simply overheating and I have no idea what to do.'_

_He glanced at her, puzzled. 'Did you owl—er—I mean, phone—the housing department?' He was sitting in his usual place in his own bedroom, with a floating picture frame of Pigwidgeon in one corner. _

'_No, there's no need for that' she airily replied. 'I might just take things into my own hands.' And with that, she slipped off her ebony tank top to reveal soft, delicate breasts that made his nether regions warm, and…lengthen. He groaned audibly, and she noticed his hand slipping into his jeans, stroking away, gently but firmly._

_She began touching—her inner warmth, and her nether lips. Stroking, caressing, and sighing with pure pleasure; she kissed and licked her elbows, her shoulders, her forearms, and hugged herself gently. This continued on for several minutes, as she saw him remove his T-shirt to reveal his muscles and smooth, alabaster skin. She pinched each of her nipples with her forefingers and glanced ever-so-innocently at him, who looked like he would burst at any moment._

_And this was the moment she had been waiting for; he hurriedly removed his jeans (nearly tripping over the computer power cord—she stifled a giggle). Her horny companion freed himself from his cotton boxers—she could see his enlarged length, and felt herself moisten all of a sudden. She could feel her own toes curl and her legs jerk involuntarily as she continued stroking herself with her right hand—which turned into full-on rubbing, slow, then faster, pressing into herself deeper and deeper. She then paused, and stuck her left index finger into her mouth, inside, and out, repeating for several times for his viewing._

_She resumed her rubbing; she could see, through the computer screen, his back flush against his nylon/plastic chair, his cheeks red from excitement, as he kept rubbing his member, which grew larger. All of a sudden, she saw him pause and gasp, as liquid of pearl-grey hue emanated from within him in rhythmic spurts for her to see; she came seconds later, eyes closed, her mouth O-shaped, absorbing the sheer amount and intensity of throbbing from within. She was ever so wet._

_She looked him in the eye, mouthed 'ILY' (their secret love language) and switched off Skype, posting, in an 'away message': More to come ;)_


	3. Aurora Borealist

**Aurora Borealis Night Beneath the Stars**

Ron groaned with pleasure, as he finished reading Hermione's—Melanija's—latest fanfiction story. _Skype sex. Wow. _It certainly gave a foray into his sexy schoolgirl/seductress's inner thoughts; she wasn't nearly as innocent as she looked.

It was late evening, and he glanced down at his watch. _Ten o'clock_ it read. The light show would begin soon, and Hermione would arrive by country bus any second. He sat on a red-and-white checkered picnic blanket, magicked to feel cushioned like an inch-thick foamed yoga mat. Bubbling champagne was ready, iced in a small tin bucket, glass flutes on his left, and a beautiful Norah Jones soundtrack that brought back memories of travelling in New York City, long before the cuckoo clock chaos had emerged in Switzerland. He recalled their Sunday morning at Magnolia bakery, Hermione taking photo upon photo of intricately-designed culinary artistry, so she could post images on her Wordpress blog for her muggle parents…

And suddenly, he heard the willow branches sway and rustle behind him, and he knew. It was _her_, she had come.

He breathed in the delicious scent of vanilla and coconut spice. _His lover. _He closed his eyes as she dropped her straw basket at his feet, fell at his right, and began planting kisses on the very tips of his fingers.

Ron knew she wouldn't miss this for the world. He smiled to himself; he was a _genius_. She'd written on her 'about me' on facebook her 'bucket list'—and one of the things she wanted to do was to see the Aurora Borealis. Those glimmering lights of green, purple, and blue were all she ever wrote about on social networking sites. _Women and their peculiar tastes_. He'd sooner prefer a jazz club with fast-paced dancing but knew this opportunity was too good to resist. Ron had seen the notice on an expat events forum—a park up north, open for evening romantic picnics, and free viewings of astronomy-centred lights, shooting stars, and the like.

Hermione kissed his fingers one last time, then emptied the contents of her basket—a thick wedge of French brie cheese, a cheese knife, and a large pumpkin-seeded piece of hearty bread. They sliced the bread and placed slivers of cheese on them; Ron popped open one of the two champagne bottles and poured the bubbly liquid into each glass. Together, they dined, with occasional sips of the wine and bits of conversation.

And the light show began, with a glimmer of green streaking across the ebony sky. All of a sudden, a symphony of cerulean, cornflower, and emerald hues danced across the clouds, in oceanic form, as Hermione and Ron watched in awe. (Hermione was a tad startled, as it had started all of a sudden; Ron nearly choked on his wine).

The show continued for ten straight minutes, when Ron and Hermione found themselves utterly alone in the beautiful willow tree forest. Strangely enough, nobody else chose to watch the light show as advertised; perhaps all of the couples preferred the indoors. Whatever the cause, they had the entire night and location to themselves; to be safe, Hermione hissed a silencing spell and an invisibility charm across the entire vicinity.

Lucky for them, Ron managed to bring along a tent—magically portable in a small pants pocket, but once taken out, would enlarge to fit the requisite number of people, with a ceiling mirroring the celestial sky overhead. It had a magical lock and was invisible to people, both magical and muggle.

Ron and Hermione climbed into the tent—and suddenly, (was it the champagne that fuelled it?) Ron pulled Hermione close, and kissed her in a fiery embrace. She pinned his arm to the wall and grinded her hips to meet his; he uttered a moan and swivelled to pin her arms against the wall as he drove himself into her, separated only by the faded denim of his years-old jeans, and the silk of her skirt and lacy black underwear.

A twin-sized bed appeared out of nowhere, and the two landed on its soft cushioned surface. Ron meticulously unhooked Hermione's bra, removed her shirt and slid off her flower-printed skirt that was at least several inches cropped above her knee. _The shorter, the better._ Meanwhile, Hermione tugged at his shirt and he yanked it off. He slid off his pants to reveal his silk boxers, and resumed the pleasuring of his lover…


	4. Celestial Cunning Linguist

aurora II

Ron and Hermione lay on the twin-sized bed, within the magically-protected invisible and sound-proof tent; they could see the celestial symphony of Aurora Borealis imaged onto the tent's ceiling.

He gently moved on top of Hermione, but this time, lowered his body, until his eyes were directly facing her femininity—her nether lips' juices_. _ His tongue gingerly licked her clit, with the same motions he had used, licking her nipples oh-so-very-long ago. She murmured, expressing her deep contentment. Hermione's arm stroked his hair, his neck, and his strong, sturdy back that made up all of this man, _her_ man, _her_ guy.

Seconds turned into one minute, then two, three, and then fifteen…Ron nestled his nose in the folds of her, taking in all of her fruit-scented sweetness. Her juices were incredibly sweet, and smelled of fresh apples and sugar like none other.

His Hermione oft remarked she forgot to eat breakfast because she was so busy with schoolwork, but had mentioned a week ago that she changed her routine, eating a Golden Delicious yellow apple en route to the university. _Judging on the saccharine of her flavour, it certainly paid off…_

He continued with his expert touch, on her thigh, her knees, whilst continuing to lick her core; a few times, he thrusted with slight pressure into her, and he swore he could see her mouth the word _more_. He obeyed, rubbing his tongue on her very sensitive clit, petite and small, yet growing and vibrating more by the minute. He could, placing his index finger on this area, feel her blood circulating—he sensed herself pulsating more and he stroked her with one finger, then two, and used his tongue again.

Hermione moaned, louder this time. She drew her clear nail polish-manicured nails into his back, leaving slightly red marks where they were. Her legs intertwined with his naked body as he proceeded to lick all the more. He continued more, harder, softer, slower, then saw her luscious mouth breathe the words _faster_ and _coming._

Ron grabbed his throbbing, pulsating cock, rubbed it vigorously several times; he turned his attention to Hermione again, tasting her. He accelerated his pace of her, beads of sweat forming on his temple, until her breathing hastened and hitched as she came, waves upon waves of orgasm engulfing her. Ron kissed her core, her legs, her thighs, and moving upward, her feather-light breasts.

He tasted her rosebud nipples, and came moments after, on her tender, slim stomach, watching in Gryffindor-esque ferocious pleasure as she tentatively dipped her ring finger into the pearly white, and placed it into her mouth, sucking with undisguised, tantalising delight.


	5. Tumultuous Black-and-Blue

On day two of their heady rendezvous in the willow forest, Hermione awoke. Peering outside the magical tent, she could see the branches swaying to a silent tune, in deep reverie. Careful not to disturb Ron, she plucked her muggle digital camera from her skirt pocket and went outside to take photographs of the dazzling scenery.

And dazzling, it was.

Blackberry bushes dotted the horizon, their gleaming fruit glistening in the dewy sunlight; alongside the willow trees were exotic cinnamon bushes, their bark reminiscent of those spice cookies Hermione's parents used to bake for the Christmas holiday. Hermione breathed in the scent of home, as she watched the forest awaken from its daily slumber.

Her hair was long, curly, and loose; her wavy locks glistened as she sauntered through the willow forest, her cherry-red camera in hand. Occasionally, she would stop and click her camera at a small violet, or an ancient tree containing large, copper-coloured pieces of petrified wood. She found it odd that there were no creatures in this forest—no bunnies, no eagles, no sparrows—nothing.

Until someone—or something—tapped her on the shoulder. She jumped a bit, startled, but found no one behind her. She turned her head around to continue her path—and found a pair of tiny black eyes staring at her. _Oh, crap._

It was the bird—blue, black, and white—and against all odds, it had found her.

Hermione by this time was half a mile from the tent; biting her lip, she continued onward for a couple more feet. Shielding her eyes from the now-intense sunlight, she found a solid, low-lying log near a babbling brook. She glanced again at the bird, who appeared to be tapping its claw impatiently. She sighed, and using her wand, conjured a delicate piece of parchment and a writing quill.

_I don't belong to you any more. _She blinked away tears, and kept writing.

_It was a tumultuous beginning. Our families hated each other, and we had nothing in common but a summer. I noticed how much you would drink—I was terrified you would turn into your abusive uncle; you boasted about the O.W.L.s you had, and how richly successful and smart you were. I told myself it was okay—it was okay for you to drink copiously, it was okay for you to be confident, and maybe I was the hypercritical one. I was wrong._

_It reached a breaking point when I heard you talking to her. Your mother was mentally disabled, and yet you lacked any semblance of compassion—at one point, you even yelled at her to 'shut up.' Who fucking does that? My world broke apart then; if that was how you treated her, what did that mean for me? I knew from then on that things would never be the same, but you remained utterly and hopelessly oblivious._

_You finished your tirade and saw me there; you never apologised for those angry words. The world apparently revolved around you, and everyone else was mere spectators. The rest was a blur—I recall you told me you cared about me—but I didn't recognise you. You tried to bind yourself to a promise you would always respect me. I was too scared of the monster you had become. Maybe you were always a wolf in sheep's clothing, and maybe I didn't know until it was almost too late._

_Your wand misfired and cracked amidst the chaos, and you became a black-eyed bird with stripes of sapphire-blue and impeccable white, to match the robes you had donned at the time. The curse is supposed to last another four months, and there's nothing I can do to speed it up, as human selfishness is difficult to unbind. You can't break promises in the magical world without suffering consequences. (Frankly, you're rather lucky you were turned into a bird—I've heard others turned into black widow spiders. Now _that_ wreaked havoc on their sex lives. But I digress.) _

_I know you believe I am responsible—but it was all your doing. It was your wand—your fate—and it was ultimately you who brought this on yourself. Enjoy the next 4 months._

_-H_

She sealed the contents of the letter, shrank it to the size of a fifty-pence note, and placed it in the beak of the bird that was perched silently on her left. The bird curtly nodded and flew away to read it, and perhaps to roost in a blackberry bramble not too distant from the invisible tent…


	6. Oblivio

Oblivio

Hermione walked back to the invisible tent; the bird had flown away (for the time being anyways).

She peeled open the thin covering, and entered the celestial sky-decorated room, carefully ensuring the tent was invisible and sound-proof. It was.

She came to the foot of the deliciously-warm twin-sized bed. Ron was still sleeping, unaware of the morning's drama. Her lustful loyalty was with Ron—it had always been—and always would be.

Her sweater came off; she shed her tank top and bra, and her underwear, muttering a _contraceptio_ charm to be safe. She was blissfully naked, from her curled brown locks, her now-tanned skin, her rosebud-like nipples, and her clit. She curled into bed against Ron, who could feel her nakedness and grinned. Hermione stroked his biceps with her lovely, tapered fingers, and he hugged her close, combing his fingers through her wildly wavy hair.

She dipped into the covers and placed her mouth over his morning wood, licking firmly and ever-so-deliberately. He began to thrust in his sleep, his member growing larger, and oh, so very hard…He grunted and moaned and began to fully awaken.

Suddenly, he shifted positions, placed himself on top of her, and pinned her arms on the pillow. He brought his lips to meet hers…she wrapped her legs around one of his legs, dry humping and moaning the softest of noises. This went on for the next several minutes, then Ron spread her legs gently, lowering his erection's length to graze her thigh, her upper thigh, and finally, her clit. He slid his cock up and down her clitoris, increasing her pleasure as she closed her eyes in all its intensity. And she wanted _more_.

She grasped his cock firmly, and pressed it against her opening; he understood what she wanted and he thrust—gently—into her, sliding himself into her wet, slick area; she uttered a wordless moan as she absorbed him into her—as they became one single unit of chemistry-laden magic, escaping far away from the chaotic world of blue-black birds and selfish curses.

He was always worried about causing her pain, but he needn't have worried; she was so wet and horny for his pearly essence and beautiful musculature. He entered her thoroughly and completely. They looked at each other and kissed all the more—hot, passionate, and fiery. He thrusted faster, then slower, and gathered pace, fucking so hard the bed shook, hurtling finally into a frenzied pace, culminating in his spillage of pearly seed within her in orgasmic bursts amidst shaky moans.

He stayed inside her for awhile after—perhaps it was six minutes more—as she whispered _'Good Morning'_ cheekily into his ear.


	7. Chocolate Cupcake

**The Chocolate Cupcake**

_Melanija was fashioning for herself a lovely chocolate cupcake. Its icing was fresh cream, and frozen berries plucked at the season's peak. The cake itself had an intoxicating aroma of rich, 80% pure cacao chocolate with subtle hints of spices from the Himalayas. The filling was pure liquid pleasure, sure to entice whoever was the very lucky recipient._

_She'd admittedly had a rough first week back at university. Her dissertation was in its final stages, yet her supervisor always found something minor in 'dire need of correction.' Her parents continually harassed her about her inability to find a job, despite a perfectly good juris doctor degree and an impending master's in law. She applied to 300 positions every week, but she was a—what was the term?—a 'jack of all trades.' Melanija had studied popular culture in uni, on top of medical anthropology and bioethics. She'd attended law school in the vain hopes of an enviable career, only to be told a week before completion that the school had only a thirty per cent employment rate in the entire nation. Then, she was offered a bright opportunity to do a master's whilst on scholarship. She seized the moment, hoping against hope that she could find someone willing to hire her—a juris doctor, a creative literotica Fanfiction writer, and music venue photographer. It was April 8__th__, two months before completion of studies, and nobody wanted her, despite a first class mark on her final project._

_She was worried about a recent article in the world news, which had noted a recent spike of unemployment-related youth suicides in the 25-29 age range….Melanija loved life but sometimes wished it were easier, happier, and more settled. She wanted nothing more than to be thirty years old, gainfully employed, with a family of her own in Europe…_

Hermione continued writing about Melanija, but stopped suddenly. She drew her wand from her pocket, and conjured up a chocolate cupcake, matching that of dear character Melanija. The icing was creamier, the frozen berries positively glistening with fresh dew. The cake was rather spongy and a lovely scent was had.

Ron happened to duck his head into the sitting room where Hermione was, and licked his lips invitingly. She was sitting cross-legged on a red velvet sofa (they were back at her flat this time) and the cupcake was hovering in the air directly within Ron's line of sight. He grabbed at it, and she used nonverbal magic to pull it away, as it zoomed into her artful hand.

With a snap of her fingers, the window blinds were drawn, the lights were dimmed to a candlelit consistency, and she removed her tight heather grey tank top and her shorts to reveal lacy underwear. Ron drew his body forward to be on top of her, after having removed his undershirt and pants.

There were two frozen currants on the cupcake, which now lay hovering at a slightly lower level, next to the sofa. Hermione plucked one and rubbed it along Ron's most intimate area, watching his facial expression change to one of arousal and delight. The berry drew tingling sensations, and its icy goodness made him want even more. The berry soon dissolved, and its sweetness was tasted by Hermione; Ron hugged her closer toward his rapidly-beating heart…

And then, Ron took the other currant and rubbed it along Hermione's nipples, as if it were a pearly bead of delicate quality. He watched in mischievous pleasure as she squirmed, so sensitive to the sudden change in skin temperature. She murmured as he continued rubbing, and when that berry was thoroughly lotioned onto her, he took hold of her breast and began using his tongue to pleasure his beautiful, foxy seductress extraordinaire…


	8. Molten Ensconcement

**Himalayan Cacao Frosting**

_A molten chocolate filling encased in Himalayan cake, all topped with fresh cream frosting._

The cupcake hovered inches away from the sumptuously-ensconced couple. Ron moved as if to grab a lick of the cream frosting, but Hermione swatted his hand away; the gourmet cupcake was a charmed toy to be worn, not eaten.

Instead, Hermione scooped the two-tablespoon's worth of impeccably snow-white cream in her palms, breathing in its seductive fragrance; she could almost taste the _tlilxochitl _sweet sap from whence it came. Making the faintest of moans, she rubbed her two hands thoroughly with the balm, mounted Ron as he lay on his stomach, and slathered it on Ron's back.

He could feel his arousal tingling, as he absorbed the aphrodisiac perfume that emanated from the cupcake. Indescribable pleasure flooded his neurons and brain synapses, sensually filling him with an unheard-of bliss. Ron began, almost subconsciously, to hump the red velvet cushioning, so entrancing was Hermione's creation; thank goodness the cupcake had self-directed mechanisms of its own, otherwise the essence would be flying every which way. Hermione had taken this, among many other factors, into account when constructing this culinary masterpiece.

Fascinatingly, once the liquid made contact with Ron's _dermis_, it spread itself evenly, reaching every trace of naked skin that was deliciously exposed to Hermione. It was mess-free, and none of it landed on the surrounding couch nor carpeting. The substance began vibrating of its own accord, and Ron arched his back in ecstasy-filled pleasure. _So _that's_ what it's for…_

Ron recalled how, several months ago, Hermione had developed an acute case of carpal tunnel due to meticulously hand-writing all 15 hours' worth of her O.W.L's. Fortunately, such hand strain had lessened, but those weeks after the affliction set in had him relieving his pent-up…_pleasure_…by his own hand rather than by his lusty fair lady, much to his and her consternation.

…Once the vibrating had ceased, the cupcake unflowered itself, revealing a sweet-smelling concoction of pure cacao. Ron by this time, had turned and now lay flat on his back, eyes on Hermione, his lady of the _salon. _The dark cake surrounding the centre suddenly transformed into a similarly-coloured silken blindfold, which Hermione deftly snatched, tying it around Ron's eyes with her nimble fingers.

_He was all hers now—every inch of his body—and she could 'dominatrix it' every way she wanted._

Hermione noticed that though Ron's eyes were covered with the midnight-shaded cloth, his arms continued to hug her lower back toward him, as she became intertwined with his body. Sweet tenderness, affection and adulation, of this petite young sprite appeared to be the affectational theme of the steamy session—or so he thought.

_But dominatrix Hermione doesn't _do_ hugs_. Hermione roughly snatched Ron's arms from where they had been, cradling her perky, youthful arse, and pinned both his arms on the sofa above his head with her arms. Her butterfly thighs, and tango-practiced hips thrusted at Ron, humping his naked erection which lay vulnerably open and exposed, jerking mid-air. Whilst practicing this multitudinous feat, Hermione drew close to Ron's similarly-unclothed shoulder, bit—ever so slightly with her pearly white molars—and sucked. She watched with devilish musings how the affected area grew crimson, then evolved into a deep plum-purple hue. Hermione drew herself temptingly closer to his nakedness, abruptly flipping her body 69-style—so that her mouth faced his frontal nether region—whilst using her acrobatic ankles to pin his palms to the silken cushion in the cosy warmth of the living room.

_She never realised being devious would taste so good._


	9. Lust of Cosmos

Randy.

Ron always had randy, dirty thoughts. This time, however, they were _quite_ dirtier than usual.

Hermione told him her cousin was pregnant with her first child, and Hermione was ecstatic for her family member. This had Ron thinking—what would it be like if Hermione herself were pregnant with his own precious progeny?

The baby would have adorably cute red hair, characteristic of the Weasley family tree; perhaps the child would have Hermione's sun-kissed freckles and that furrowed brow of intense concentration that he always found so likeable.

Just _how_ the baby would come to be in her…well _that_ occupied Ron's brain for quite a while…

_It would be a dark evening—perhaps a week into February—the month of romance, lust, and pleasure. Hermione would be so drained from work as usual, with her campaign partnership to aid magical non-wizarding creatures. He would have stayed home that day to conjure silver, white, and crimson wax candles; he would have lit them all around a porcelain, lion-footed vintage bath practically overflowing with opaque mulberry-scented soap suds and bath crystals. She would trudge upstairs to their bedroom—for in this fantasy, they were married—and turn the knob of the grand bath suite. She might expect the usual—Ron shaving his (non-existent) stubble, talking on about the latest Manchester United match against Chudley Cannons. But not this time. Instead, she would be greeted with Ron's nude and muscular frame, in complete darkness save for those iridescent luminous candles; the scene would be so beautiful, it would nearly bring her to tears. He inherently understood that any child of his should be brought into this world amidst wonderful exquisiteness and awe-inspiring magic._

_He would remove her clothing—one by one. Tearing her free of her silken blouse, he would kiss her pristine forehead, shoulders, each of her rotund breasts, her navel, and revel in the Venus that lay before his uncouth eyes…_

_When they would find themselves in bed that day, she is about to utter a contraception charm, but Ron places a finger on her lips and momentarily silences her. Her eyes widen, as she comprehends what he wordlessly seeks to convey. They caress each other, knowing that in their movements, their rhythms, their harmonisation, they are assembling a future that is theirs alone to share, for as long as they shall live…a future free from terror, antipathy, and of horrors of wars past. This is a new beginning with laughter, tears, and a springing forth of a new era._

_He continues to pay due homage to her immaculate body; his hand strokes her belly, that part of warmth that will soon prepare to house a soul cosmically combined of their magical flesh—female and male. He kisses her navel as his wife combs his unruly hair. She begins to use her nimble fingers on his manhood, but he stops her, as he wants to have the pleasure of seeing himself enter her completely, free of barriers—just him and her, alone together, as never seen before._

_His hardness has become red, swollen, and throbbing with the heat of a thousand suns…Fiery passion flows through himself, as he pins her arms above her head on the angelic white pillow of chintz and silk. Instead of the contraceptive rubber, he feels his skin, touching her outer lips, grazing her vertical smile, and taking notice of her aroused wetness._

_He enters, and the moistness almost ends him then and there—but he hurriedly forges on; he pumps back and forth, with an unusual depth, as if an iron-clad stake were driven into a sturdy pyre. His mission is one of permanence, and he increases his speed. Usually attentive of his lady's moans, they are mere background noise as he concentrates on this pleasure-inducing sensuality. _

_He can feel his member growing and achieving peak, as he is within her all the while. Velvety melanin juxtaposed with the firm, robust feminine uterus, an amazing organ capable of housing a living being for a long nine months' gestation. His lustful creation—within a mischievous minx of a clever girl…he can picture this being moving and stirring within her, sucking her plump breasts sodden with creamy human-made milk, her nipples growing more pink by the minute…_

_He suddenly reaches that moment of inevitability, whispers so in his lover's ear, and she savagely French-kisses him as his sandalwood-aroma essence spurts forth in unrelenting pace, within her moist inner warmth._

_…A million soundless vibrations issue, as the cosmos comprehends that a unity of witch and wizard flesh is taking the universe by storm._


	10. One Day in November

One Day Before Ron

Hermione was a glamorous postgraduate, with perfect grades, amazing (magically-tamed hair), and an exceptional arse.

And she was crying large crocodile-sized tears in the shower. In England.

_He_ promised to visit her. He, in those perfect blue, white, and silver robes of his, and that oh-so-predictable pretentious bad-boy smirk that she found so irritatingly seductive. _This October_ he'd written (and that was in early August, whilst she was completing a prestigious philosophy-based internship in the city). She'd been so happy that she knocked over her filled coffee cup over in her haste to check her weekly diary. She uttered a quick cleaning spell, not before checking the coast was clear (as she worked with a series of paralegals and muggle accountants at the time).

That would have been five weeks at the earliest, to perhaps ten weeks at the latest. Plenty of time for this young chap to visit her, and to hug her to her heart's content.

And soon, September passed. She left that special internship to voyage on to England for her studies; she knew (or thought or hoped—all of the above actually), that he would be waiting in a separate but not-too-distant-country to welcome her with open arms.

_November_ he'd scribbled. A day after…the last week in September. Tears blurred her angry visage, threatening to spill over onto the policy parchment she was transcribing for class. _Fucking bastard_. _I went to England for you—and now you're too busy?_ She went through his online public calendar, to see that he'd filled every October day—and weekend!—with Tiesto events and celebrity meet-ups.

Apparently, meeting the Manchester United team, Tiesto, Norwegian singers, and Romanian soccer players mattered more than having a fun-filled night in with his girl, and a beautiful tour of the outlying cities. He chose fame and fortune over love. She realised this, and it hurt excruciatingly, so much more than she'd ever thought possible. Her heart physically hurt, and she'd ducked into the showers to avoid being heard by her many flatmates. _How does one recover from a broken heart, shattered promises, and countless lies?_

She mulled it over whilst lathering her silken locks with strawberry-banana scented Herbal Essences shampoo, and soaping her impeccable body with aromatherapeutic essences of almond and tea tree oil. Hermione topped this all with a couple of sun salutations. And suddenly, she was 'right as rain.'

The next day, she'd come to a holiday party with ten or so mutual friends, for a bout of pre-final exam merry-making and a bit of football-watching with a couple of beers and mulled wine amongst the group. She entered the front door, and adjoining kitchen, stopping to look into the living room—where she spotted a lovely, tall, red-haired young man sitting on the couch…Of course, they began talking, as if they'd never parted ways previously….

And _that_ is how, that evening, she found herself back in her flat, pressed up against her crimson-flower-printed wall, kissing passionately with a delectably-hard red-headed man, who was about to remove her low-cut silken blouse for what was underneath.

_She didn't mind in the slightest._


	11. Bookmarm Slumduggery

Hermione and Ron were at the library, in one of the newest wings, in which there were rows of soft, dark blue chairs, side-by-side, adjoining large glass windows constructed with magic wizardry.

She pulled his hand toward her, gesturing toward those comfortable seats; she found one and Ron sat on the cushioned chair next to her. Oddly enough, those chairs were 'single occupancy'—so only one student could sit on a chair—not two. Perhaps the professors didn't want students daydreaming or becoming frisky during the emerging spring season of bunnies, flowers, fertility, and overall…_horniness._

Ron _accio'd_ a newspaper and it arrived, flying smack into his crotch. He winced, and Hermione silently giggled to herself, reaching for her parchment on magical dwarves, tucked away in her tiny-yet-Mary Poppins-esque satchel. Once settled, she uttered a small sigh of nerdish contentment and began editing here and there, and marking bits of comments. Mostly, she just reread most of her notes, having started this writing project three months in advance.

Ron wasn't having such a fun time studying. His crotch sustained a tiny ego-bruising blow, and he could hardly concentrate on his oral exam work knowing the object of his affection was seated next to him, and mere inches away from his cock.

Feigning studiousness, he conjured the newspaper to unfurl itself and spread out in front of him, covering his body from sight save for his ankles, as he remained sitting.

Hermione's hand was perched on the seat rest on his left, and he took her hand; she smiled to herself and kept proofreading. He then drew it down to his pants, and he could feel Hermione's sidelong gaze and grinned cheekily. His hand guided hers to his crotch.

Hermione was editing her paper, it was springtime, she was in a new wing of the library, and her hand was on his crotch.

She smirked. _Her lucky day. _She began by massaging, moving her hand in gentle circles, slow, medium, and rapid, counter-clockwise and clockwise. Ron appeared to be completely absorbed in his work. _How was that even possible? _She surely had underestimated his extreme multi-tasking skills.

Hermione uttered a silencing charm and an invisibility charm, (and to be safe) an illusory charm. Now, it looked to all the world that she and her man were deep in study, covered with stacks of tax law books and books about 'slumduggery economics' that no one would want to step through, as they would reek to high heaven (thanks to her skilful abilities with illusory charms, as hers had sensory effects as well).

Hermione moved her hand upward to the rim of his pants, and delved inward to touch his raw, aching cock, which grew and deliciously hardened under her wickedly feminine touch.

She stroked, slower, and faster, as his legs began to tremble—just—a—bit. She saw him becoming slightly less composed, wriggling in his seat a bit more, and thrusting—just a tiny, tiny bit.

Ensuring the charms were still intact and the wall of books still stinking of slumduggery (to everyone but themselves), the coast was wonderfully clear. With her deft hands, she unzipped his pants, and removed his large cock from his trousers. He groaned again as his dick hit cool air, and Hermione placed it in her wanton mouth, now seasoned with delicious hints of strawberry and vanilla chai spice. She placed her silvery water all over his nether regions, as she milked him and sucked and he moaned.

She, ever-perceptive-could sense his apex; she thrust her tongue at his very tip and he came apart, his silvery, warm essence entering her livened, sensuous lips, swallowed in all its entirety.

It was days like these, that he loved studying in the library with Hermione.


	12. Ex-Lover Letter

Hermione's Letter

Address: Undisclosed

Contents: Secretive

To: My dirty-minded ex-lover with those pale eyes

Subject: What the hell was I thinking?

On that day in November—when I called things off for good—what was I thinking?

I don't know.

Maybe I was done being second to your techno obsession. Maybe I realised I was a rabbit, and you were…a Tasmanian devil…hyper as ever, with that oh-so-alluring spiky hair of yours, and your sexily arrogant attitude that made me want to bind your pale-skinned wrists to the floorboards and fuck you into oblivion.

I never told you that. I remember, during our dry sex-a-thon (as I would call it) that you told me to bring condoms next time—then your eyes got bigger and you exclaimed you were kidding. You laughed it off, but I knew what you wanted.

I knew and I was ready—but I don't think you were. I had the brains and the mind of a forty-year-old (according to the Mensa test and other intellectual analyses) and your brain was equivalent to an offshoot of Einstein, yet so emotionally stunted to resemble that of a prepubescent twelve-year-old child.

I couldn't change you. I tried, and I…I just couldn't. I was tired of you blowing me off for concerts—you aggrandised everything—and tried to make it seem as though I was exaggerating my hurt and pain. You projected your lack of feelings—your power—onto others and simply had no understanding—no compunction—for what others were going through.

Were you ever a diagnosed psychopath?

You have no empathy in your body—no sense of compassion to be found in the deep recesses of your soul. If someone told me you tortured frogs as a child for sheer pleasure, I might have believed them.

What happened afterward?

I found another man.

He's my light and my soul, and I am happy now.

He's a bit nerdy like you,

Younger than you,

But sweeter—so much so,

And kind-hearted, and tender.

I'd never had a man cry upon my leaving him—and that's how I knew how important I was to him. To others, I was just a girl, but to him, I was his light, his angel.

He pressed for sex sooner than you did, but I held back, and then went forward. Those heavy make-outs and one-night-stands turned into two...then four...then week-longs. I met his friends, he met mine, and we finally acknowledged that maybe-just maybe-we were more than fuck buddies who liked a cuddle every now and then.

He listens to Josephine Baker, and teaches me jazz steps; you'd never do that. I guess I was looking for a young guy with an old soul, intelligent, good-hearted, who needed me as I needed him. Who had an appetite for the unusual, and respected sex for all that it was.

I'm not writing this letter to send to you—it's just for my personal diary. You had a child's view of sex—but he reveres and respects it…

And he's open to giving. And receiving. Oral. You'd never give-I know your type. Mi amor also does doggy-style (one of the perks of being rather tall and gangly, I suppose).

Generosity—it goes both ways, no?

Anyhow, toodle-pip.

Hermione read and re-read the letter, using a charm to incinerate it magically, and brush its ashes with her wand, entering it invisibly into her journal for safe-keeping from prying witches and wizards.

Then, she turned around from her comfortable red sofa seat and returned to bed, to suck the deliciously firm cock of a man she knew and loved dearly. She could hear him calling for her from their bed...


	13. Nirvana Shattered

There is, in the recesses of the soul, hidden away so far beneath all the chaos of late, a girl in a silken, flower-printed summer dress, her delicate waist encircled by the pale-yet-strong hand of another, his breath delightfully arousing her senses, of milky-vanilla musk and a hint of European cologne. His metal-rimmed lens encompass his blue-grey eyes (she will give poetic license and state his eyes are 'blue as the Aegean sea'–he will retort that his eyes are grey–_thank you very much_).

**He's late to pick her up.**

She forgives him, and tries to kiss him, but her advances are pushed away; she feels rejected and hurt. He wants a guarantee–a sure promise–of a future, maybe not a 'forever' future, but one that is worth the time, energy, and overall emotional investment. She can't give it to him, even though she would do anything to; honesty was the best policy.

**She can't blame him.**

She acts jovial, wearing her faux-diamond-studded Jackie-O sunglasses, hiding the invisible tears laying beneath. In another life, maybe she would have cried–or screamed–or done a number of things, but time heals all past wounds, and she had no energy left within her.

The kindergartener in her is silently curled up in the fetal position, ribbons of salty tears streaming down her doe-eyed visage. She imagines this imaginary kindergartener alone in a cold, dark room, having lost all semblance of light and hope–for the time being, pain piercing her soul in every corner it could possibly reach, no part of her body left miraculously unscathed. Nobody to protect her, nobody to hug her, nobody to tell her everything was going to be alright. Because maybe it would be–or maybe it wouldn't.

But she doesn't cry, not in front of him. The girl rotates her claddagh ring around her right index finger–friendship, love, and loyalty. It was slightly bent, having survived a number of clumsy calamities, from tripping over a metal railroad track, to grazing a stop sign in the dark whilst walking home from the library.

**He's crying too.**

And she is unafraid. Why doesn't he trust her, that things will end up as they should? She's angry–at herself, at him, at the world. All she wanted was to be happy, have a cheerful life, have a fulfilling career, and reach her potential in any way, shape, or form. She is a brilliant girl, after all. Her first lover didn't believe she was capable of rerouting her life to Europe, and here she was, applying to thousands of jobs. But the man in front of her–**he didn't trust her. **And it hurt far more than she could have ever imagined, even though she appeared to have taken in the bad news with the alacrity and brevity of a saint. Sometimes she wondered why she was the only one with this obstinate stubbornness–this perseverance borderlining on unrealistic insanity. Three thousand jobs, and a handful of responses. It was a pity she wasn't European, no?

**She knew what she wanted just then.**

She wanted a smart man, a decent-looking man, friendly and affectionate, and all that. **But she wanted a man who was stronger, and perhaps a bit more fearless.** A man who embraced the 'carpe diem' mantra, and who learned to never underestimate the willpower and strength of a petite, young lass.

The girl also wanted the ever-elusive man to dance with her one summer evening under the stars, in a European town, with a foreground of mountains, illuminated by a glowing, sapphire moon. She had many dreams, as expansive as the sky is large, and as numerable as the stars speckled in the tapestry of the ever-changing, mysterious universe.

**She didn't know how to cry, but perhaps that was just as well.** She always ascribed to the notion that 'what didn't kill you would make you stronger,' and the Lady Gaga quote she repinned on Pinterest, of course (along with the rest of her photos, and dream-like claddagh jewelry).

_"I had a boyfriend who told me I'd never succeed, never be nominated for a Grammy, never have a hit song, and that he hoped I'd fail. I said to him, 'Someday, when we're not together, you won't be able to order a cup of coffee at the fucking deli without hearing or seeing me."_ _― Lady Gaga_


	14. For Love or America

**For Love or America**

Melanija found herself at the kitchen table, a Starbucks via at her side, with a red-and-white McDonalds-esque straw plunked inside the cup.

The weather was gloomy as usual, but that was to be expected, living in Europe thereabouts. Having completed a multitude of job applications (both Europe and abroad), she decided to take a breather and continue her story on Hermione.

However, upon writing 'Nirvana Shattered,' she realised that she was letting her own emotional livelihood drown out Hermione's voice, and decided to address this before returning to Hermione herself, and her vibrant life post-Hogwarts.

Melanija was in what could be termed a dilemma. Only seventeen days earlier, her international boyfriend gently broke up with her, stating that he couldn't handle a long-distance relationship. He still had a year to complete of education around Germany, and she—she had family around Texas, and no job offers yet from European companies.

She didn't cry, at least—not in front of him, anyways. But then, four days ago to be exact, she received a job offer in Europe. A verbal one, but that was beside the point.

Melanija also received word of a role in Oregon, a mere hour from all of her friends far, far away.

What should she do?

Melanija knew that her guy truly cared about her, but he chose 'flight' instead of fight.

**She felt that he'd rashly decided—that she wasn't worth the emotional risk.** That she just wasn't worth fighting for. Did she have any fighting spirit herself, after all of this? Was it worth taking a job in Europe, and all of the paperwork, or should she move to Oregon, and start over?

She created a list of priorities (she was much like Hermione in this sense—very meticulous).

On her list, she created categories:

**Happiness/Financial freedom and stability/Marriage and Family Life/Travel and International Exploration.**

Then, she created a list of pros and cons for the Europe job and the American job.

Europe: Pros: International travel, being paid to live abroad, rich culture, being closer to a guy I care deeply about, being near a friend living in Belgium, improving French, learning German

Europe: Cons: Living 6000 miles away from family, double taxation from two separate countries, little pay (in comparison to elsewhere), higher cost of living, and a guy who didn't know what he wanted

America: Pros: Greater chance of financial stability, upward mobility, beautiful weather, hiking, near family

America: Cons: Never seeing a certain guy again, never traveling abroad, giving up learning languages, giving up the opportunity to explore other cultures firsthand, boredom

She noted that there were, for Europe, exactly 7 pros, 5 cons. For America, there were 5 pros, and 5 cons. Overall, the most pros were with Europe, but there were an equal number of drawbacks for Europe and America. There seemed to be less emotionally fulfilling benefits for America than Europe.

Melanija gave her list another look, and decided to reflect on this for the coming week. Sometimes, she wished he knew what he wanted, and that he wanted _her_. She knew other friends who went to Europe, and their men couldn't bear to be parted, so they applied to jobs just to be closer to them.

If she wanted an easy, well-paid-but-potentially loveless life, she could easily move to America.

If she wanted an emotionally fulfilling challenge, less-paid but far more vibrant and fascinating, with the storyline akin to a neverending soap opera, she could fill out the myriad copies of paperwork for Europe.

She was older, though. If she were even two years younger, she would have chosen Europe in a heartbeat—but she craved stability now. Melanija had no clue what the fuck she wanted.

_And maybe it was ok._

Melanija gazed outside the picture window of her kitchen's flat; the sun unexpectedly shone through, and the trees gently swayed in the invisible wind. It would be a surprisingly beautiful summer day.

She supposed she'd wait for all of this career drama to play itself out in the next weeks, and have a concrete job offer, or offers, which would hopefully make the decision _for her_, so she wouldn't have to.

Did she want a 'General Hospital' soap opera, or a 'Grey's Anatomy' spin-off ('Private Practice')?

_**Melanija decided to let her readers give their input...**_


	15. Moon and the Stars

**Ron couldn't even put on a condom right, her period was exactly 16 hours and 59 minutes and two seconds late, and he wouldn't talk to her this entire month because he was busy with his thesis.**

_Annoying bastard._

Hermione was unusually cranky, and it _was _indeed one day into when she was supposed to have her period begin. She'd been having a late lunch of smoked salmon and blue cheese over store-bought baguette, and was trying to relax, despite the 'sign' she'd received recently.

The sign was whilst she was having her annual dental checkup at her practitioner's office. Unusually for her, she'd needed a small filling and scaling done, because of a sudden departure of calcium.

**Where had the calcium gone? **

And why had this happened so fast, only weeks after sleeping with Ron?

And at the same appointment, as she began to open wide, a baby spider materialised out of thin air and dropped smack dab onto the tip of her nose. She squealed like a banshee, and frantically swept it off.

**_This meant nothing_****, Hermione told herself.**

_Absolutely nothing. _Just because a spider was thought of as good luck in the Russian culture, and that it was a baby that refused to fall off her nose until she'd removed it—_that. Meant. Nothing. _She attempted to rationalise her thoughts. _Just because a spider falls on you for no reason, does not mean you're doomed. _

**_I bet thousands of spiders fall on unsuspecting young female witches all the time in dental chairs across the world. _****For no reason. At. All.**

Which led her to purchasing _Women's Energy Dong Qian Tea_ from the local herbalist. She needed her hormone and menstrual system regulated, and fast. She'd already resorted to vitamin C, but was naturally paranoid of the side-effects.

…And _that _was why she was drinking a cup-full of nasty dark, cranberry-coloured concoction, with five strong teabags submerged within it. It was sickly-sweet, with a horrible aftertaste akin to tasting Crabbe and Goyle's essence during her studies at Hogwarts, which had gone hideously wrong, and led to her unusually feline-like appearance. She shuddered.

Hermione's potion manual detailing menstrual regularity also suggested writing a 'Spirit Letter'—to show kindness, and demonstrate goodwill, if one was unready and unwilling to be the home of such a spirit. Hermione thought, naturally, that this was foolishness pulled out of Sweet Merlin's arse, but it never hurt to be prepared.

So, with a quill and parchment, she began her Spirit Letter.

_Dear Spirit,_

_I don't know if you exist (I haven't got the strength to test if you are there, with my wand). I am too scared that if I do, and you are there, life will not be good—for you, for me—for both of us._

_Spirit, I don't want you inside me. I want you to leave. I don't hate you—I never could, I never did, and I never will._

_The world is not ready for you. I am not ready. He is not ready._

_We will be ready for you—if that's in two years, five, or even seven years—but just. Not. Now._

_You deserve the stars and the moon, dear Spirit. You deserve a man who will take you in his arms, past midnight, and sing you lullabies and songs from Juno, folk songs, and musicals. You deserve a woman who will keep you company with him, and hum tunes from the Dixie Chicks, Lenka, and Priscilla Ahn._

_Spirit, there are a multitude of other families waiting for you all over the universe. Leave me, and go pick one of them. They will love you now, in a way I cannot. They may come with other boys and girls, who will play childhood games with you, tickle you, and make you laugh in a way we cannot._

_I want you to disappear—right now. I want you to join another family who is ready to love you. Maybe they've waited several years, or even a decade for you. Do you know where they are? I hope you find them. You have others to choose from, and it's not too late._

_There is a world waiting for you to discover. Just discover it with someone else—someone more loving, someone more caring, more ready—someone stronger than me._

_Yours,_

_Hermione_

Hermione sealed the letter shut, and burned it, all the while uttering a silent prayer to Saint Hedwig, a single tear coursing down her pale, freckled cheek.


	16. Poledancer

**It was 5:29 pm, a rainy England afternoon, and Hermione found herself signed up for a poledancing class, to take place next week.**

Hermione supposed she needed an outlet for her ragged nerves, after a very intense pregnancy scare, which led to two different health clinic appointments, two urine tests, and a blood test to take place next week—though all the health professionals assured her that there was no HCG hormone present in her system, chalking everything up to stress.

**Her period could have been delayed due to sheer job pressure, emotional pressure—anything, and everything.**

It _was _true; Hermione had applied to 3050 jobs, had six or less hours of sleep a day, attempted to learn three foreign languages, and Ron was acting oddly distant because of his thesis-writing. Something had to give.

Ron seemed to interpret this time away from Hermione as necessary, writing-focused time. He believed his Hermione to be a petite, sweet, studious girl who cried at the first hint of separation from her dear lover. At least, his ego allowed him to believe so; contrary to popular belief, Hermione was no wallflower.

**And ****_he _****was the emotional one, not her.**

She was older than him, had more years of education than him, and had more kissing experience than him (though she always gave him the upper hand when out in public). She was far more cunning than she let on. Hermione could sense her Ron was becoming a bit detached, falling off Skype every now and then; instead of complaining and crying, she decided to take action so he would (sooner or later) chase her, and hopefully fuck her into oblivion.

**Then, of course, Parvati started posting photos of her most recent poledancing class.**

Hermione admired (in a girl crush, platonic way) Parvati's core and waist, which had become twice as toned since when the photographs were initially posted, several weeks before. Other girls commented on the facebook page, admiring Parvati's gumption, but always stating they could never do that.

Hermione, on the other hand, messaged Parvati, asking for the specifics—time, place, and date—and Parvati, eager to have a poledancing fellow friend, replied within two seconds, giving the course's description.

This would be the perfect way for Hermione to unwind—have an unusual exercise, meet like-minded fitness peers, and provide a welcome distraction from Ron's ego and his detached nature as of late. Hermione quickly looked up various websites and pages on facebook concerning poledancing, to reassure herself of the lack of any safety hazards.

**Once her anxieties were abated, Hermione changed her facebook status to "painted nails purple, going to a pole[dance] class next week!"**

…Which, of course, was seen by quite a few friends this late in the afternoon, including a certain red-headed, sleep-deprived, thesis-driven, horny young man, in the throes of a thousand word chapter he had to draft and submit at the stroke of midnight…

**Hermione. ****_His _****Hermione. Going to a poledancing class. To dance. On a pole.**

Ron's mind momentarily drifted from his 15,000 word script, and he began wondering exactly what shenanigans Hermione was up to, his stubborn, hard-headed, sexy little bitch.

...

He could picture the scene, of Hermione, clad in a tight black tank top, hugging her seductive curves, and pert, moon-like breasts, wearing a tiny pair of black silken shorts, climbing and eagerly mounting a long, fifteen-foot pole, in the middle of a New York studio-like surrounding.

_That girl knew no fear. He could see her, straddling the pole, opening her bamboo-like, delicate-yet-steely legs and wrapping them—entertwining her legs—with the hard, firm metal, one arm bound to the pole, and the other dangerously, yet beautifully, letting go and sweeping the air all in one go. Her act would be the best of all of the other students' because she knew nothing but perfection._

**She was ****_pure perfection._**

_Her thick, chestnut hair would have become unravelled at that point, and her cheeks reddened from the effort in balancing herself on that lengthy pole. He could feel himself growing aroused at the sight of her—her hair, her beautiful eyes, her legs that held on so effortlessly, with the elegance of an angel, and the ferocity of an eagle._

_He would watch her in this private show, as she'd land gracefully on her feet, her right hand still continuing to grip the silverly rod. And without a warning, she would suddenly run several metres away, then charge to the pole, grab ahold of the instrument with her entire body at six feet high, sliding downward than up, and down, stimulating her nether regions, increasing her fruit-filled scent, and heightening his awareness of just how intoxicating her aroma was._

….Ron was still in a semi-sleeping state, grabbing his very much erect penis, and stroking, to alleviate the swollen throbbing that accompanied his most delightful visualisation of his far-away Hermione. Her silken body was unafraid of that tall, monstrous thing, and she rode it with exceptional ease and sensuality. He groaned loudly, attempting to contain himself, but abjectly failing. The vision of Hermione pole-fucking was mind-blowing to say the least, and it was agony trying to contain himself. His dick was so strained, noticeably erect and proddingly so, through the fabric of his undergarment, and he tried to think of anything-_anything_-to make it go down. He told himself he was trying to, at least, but secretly, he liked this dirty vision of Hermione, and didn't want this picture to end anytime soon...

_…He could picture the two of them, with the pole suddenly vanished—the two of them, laying in his cosy, twin-sized bed. She was lowering her naked Venusian enchantress-like body onto his hardened dick, achingly aroused at the sight of her—this angelic yet sly, cunning creature, to his uncouth beastlike just-out-of-adolescent form. And as he entered her, it was the most pleasant feeling in the world—how could he possibly deserve such a lady?_

_…He thrust continually, inside her, almost entering a frenzied state, yanking her toward him at each turn, hearing her slight moans and her soft curse words—your penis is so fucking huge—he loved when this minx started cursing like a sailor—and it aroused him all the more. The intensity would build in deep waves and crests, and eventually reach a crazed point of thrashing—beastly, pleasurely flailing and thrusting and boning and humping and fucking, until he would gasp, and spill his seed all over his girl—his precious pearl of Hermione._

…Ron awoke with a start, in front of the computer, his penis turning flaccid, and his shorts completely cum-soaked.

**'I had the craziest dream' he typed, into his facebook status.**


	17. Indecision and Revision

**Melanija stared out the kitchen window. It was a mundane, rainy Sunday afternoon, and her ex had just sent her two Facebook messages, a Facebook friend invitation, and a Skype contact invitation.**

It was exactly 22 days since she had broken up with her European boyfriend—K Krum, and D Draco, her first love, had contacted her with the aforementioned 'overkill.' It would be worth noting that both of their names suited their personalities quite well. Krum was an athletic, tall man with a tendency towards shy reticence. Draco in contrast, was bombastic, energetic, and sometimes arrogant—though he had an elegant way with words and a certain malevolent genius that could not be surpassed.

**She was moping from Krum's shocking breakup, but should she move on—and so fast? What were Draco's motives?**

Melanija turned her attention to Hermione; Hermione's apartment was visible, with a beautifully-painted white wall and picture window, marred only by the sight of an arrogant blue, black, and white-coloured magpie that kept tapping on the immaculate glass. Hermione was, of course, awakened by the noise, and Ron was nowhere to be seen, as he was preoccupied with the completion of his senior thesis.

**Hermione was momentarily paralysed with indecision, faced with the prospect of opening Pandora's box.**

The folklore went along the lines of Pandora's curiosity of what the contents of a box contained; her insatiable appetite for knowledge caused her to break open the object, unleashing a hell-fury of evil upon the world. Hermione knew she was being overdramatic, but opening the glass window and allowing this plumaged bird back into her life could reap benefits, or create unmitigated disaster.

**What did the bird want with her? **

Hermione swept a lock of frizzy, chestnut hair from her bare, delicate chest. She already gave him her heart, and he'd more or less thrown it away, in constant search for adventure to faraway lands and pursuits that had nothing to do with her in the slightest. Part of her wanted to open the window—to let this flighty creature in, to bask in its presence, but the more cautious side of her was completely against the notion.

**It was 3:14 pm, and Melanija still hadn't responded to the 'overkill.'**

What could he possibly want, after breaking her heart into smithereens, a year or so ago? Was he the same person he was back then, or had he changed quite suddenly, out of the blue, because of his worldwide travel adventures and tropes of wisdom?

Why did he want to contact her, and why had he sent those invitations to connect, and those two messages?

Melanija hadn't read those messages yet—she wasn't sure if she was strong enough.

She had checked the captions, however. Which read…

**_"Melanija, it was all my fault."_**


	18. Veelas and Beaches

**_Melanija, it was all my fault, _****the note read.**

Five days later, and she was finally emotionally strong enough to read the note.

Draco promised to visit her, if she decided on living in Europe, and knew she was considering a life amongst the tropical palm trees and balmy weather—two very divergent paths. He was in America visiting distant relatives, but was returning to the Baltic coast around August 8th. She, on the other hand, was in Europe until August 14th, busily packing for her next adventure.

Melanija would periodically check Facebook, and it seemed as though ten of her high school friends had become engaged (in the past three weeks), all of them blissfully happy in long-term, committed relationships.

Draco's word was as flimsy as sodden toilet paper, and Krum had more or less abandoned her and was venturing around the saunas in Baden Baden and beyond.

**For once, she wanted nothing more than to be a blushing bride, with a picket-fence house and a reliable, handsome husband, planning out the 2.5 kids they would someday have.**

As it stood, Melanija was surrounded by rainy English weather, and had cried herself to sleep these past days of late, and the only way she halted this was through resuming contact with her earlier ex, Draco. It was one of those moments in which she felt she had no other choice—that she was in a dark corridor, chained to a wooden chair, forced to 'pick her poison' so to speak.

She didn't know why she cried, and why she even cried this much. Krum always hogged the covers whenever they slept, and he'd always had a bit of an insecure albeit genius personality. Maybe she missed that feeling—of warmth, of him inside her—just knowing she was wanted by someone, and in that particular way.

**Even the cashier at Tesco's knew something wasn't right.**

'Y'awright, Miss?' the sweet, blond-haired lady asked, as she rang up Melanija's mash peas and peanut butter at the counter.

'What? Oh…yes, yes, I'm…fine.' Melanija wore a peculiar expression that was a delicately odd cross between half-smiling and abject sorrow. She rotated the sterling silver ring on her index finger, and the claddagh jewellery that was now bent slightly in the middle.

'You're sure you're fine?' the lady seemed just a tad more worried.

'R-really.' Melanija tried to utter the words, her stress and heartache nevertheless plainly written all across her beautifully tanned and freckled face. 'I'm fine—I swear. I'm—I'm moving out West, Western America,' she squeaked.

'America?' the lady laughed gently. 'You and I should trade places, I'd take your life any day.' Melanija smiled a bit more, upon hearing those words.

And with that, Melanija took ahold of the trademarked plastic bag filled with her wares and strode outside, wearing dark sunglasses despite the gloomy weather, to hide the tears she knew would fall fast.

**All Melanija wanted was a guy she could trust, and a life that didn't leave her crying herself to sleep every night.**

Hermione was on her laptop, scanning for photos of Ron, and various items of interest, as she was bored and waiting to hear back. He promised her he would visit, and she knew not to pester him, as he'd been so busy these past couple of months.

But she found far more than she expected, online. Ron was pictured at a bar, with blond-haired veelas practically dripping kisses and naked lady parts all over his bare-chested body.

_'The lying twerp,' _Hermione muttered under bated breath. No curse or hex would be strong enough to fix what she was suffering, and she knew better than to go to the nearest party and hook up with strange men. She needed _better_. She deserved _more. _

**Maybe, it was time to go to America.**

Melanija was waiting for the ticket booth to open up online so she could book her flight; Hermione needed an opportunity to do yoga and momentarily escape from the humdrum English life, and to start over someplace far, far away, in a land rife with excellent dentistry and handsome athletic, buff, young men.

**Truth be told, they were tired.**

Tired of being taken for granted by the men they so loved.

Tired of living their lives for others who didn't give a shit.

Tired of pursuing their dreams whilst accommodating their men.

**They wanted more.**

Melanija wanted beautiful pink peonies in a charming glass vase—from her lover.

Hermione longed for a night of wine and cheese in a vineyard that didn't involve Ron ogling veelas.

Melanija craved love letters, jogging in an eternally summer-filled sunset, and fresh fish from the wharf;

They both needed a man worthy of commitment—a good-hearted, smart, friendly, family-oriented young man who told the truth, kept true to his word, and who wanted a life-long relationship of engagement, marriage, and children, in the next several years or so.

**Melanija and Hermione decided to plan their escape to the West Coast beaches of America, unbeknownst to the rest of their friends in England.**


	19. First Class Disappearance

Hermione was conducting last-minute shopping over at the local grocery store and Farmer's Market, where she bumped into Luna, who offered her a deliciously-hued nectarine, freshly picked. Luna asked Hermione if she was going to Brussels, as previously planned, to conduct a quasi-dental and gnome protection awareness internship programme, starting in three weeks. Hermione blushed a bit, but Luna didn't notice.

Hermione carefully responded that she'd received other opportunities and interviews around Seattle in America, and she would travel there to explore every option, palm trees included. Luna nodded, they bade each other goodbye, and Hermione hurried off to do one last walk around a hiking trail, on a hill several hundred feet from the nearest train station.

Luna was supposed to be a friend, and Hermione hadn't even broken the news she was jetting off to America in—how many?—_eight_ days. She probably wouldn't ever see Luna again, nor would she ever have opportunities to explore the hiking trails of her England forests. There were fifteen other chums Hermione should have said something to, but what on earth could she have said?

Would it be: _'I decided to suddenly up and leave for America because Belgian dentistry disinterested me?'_ No, that sounded very un-Hermione-like. They would know something was up.

Or, could she say: _'I craved palm trees and American medical care so I left England for good?'_

Hermione sighed loudly. There really was no right answer. Perhaps this was her chance to disappear. She barely updated her Facebook as it was—people would assume she was pursuing a unique dental/gnome opportunity somewhere exciting in Europe. They would never suspect she wanted to escape because of Ron and the veela situation.

And she wanted to disappear, so badly. The only people who knew she was leaving for good were two exchange student friends in America awaiting her arrival, her parents, and (strangely enough), Cormac, her dashingly-handsome, rugged athlete of an ex-boyfriend.

Of course, Cormac was doing an American Soccer Exchange in one of the coastal, sand-filled, oceanic cities, and wanted to know how she was in England. 'Very well, and contemplating America,' she'd quickly responded online. He asked when she would return—and August 14th was her day.

**Nobody else knew.**

She couldn't exactly say—

_'Hi Ron, I saw your photo with the half-naked veelas and I was irate so I ran away to America and I don't know if I'll stay there forever and disappear.'_

Hermione didn't really have words for those painful situations when she knew she was being treated far less than she was worth. She didn't want pitying farewell parties from her English compatriots, and she wanted to slip away effortlessly, into the early dawn of the upcoming Wednesday.

She'd bought her ticket nine days in advance—the train ticket—to reach the airport, from the tiny village she'd been residing in. The ticket lady at the counter stated the cost was 11 quid (pence for the newbies) and Hermione hesitatingly mentioned the two large luggages she would bring along, each of which were huge enough to fit two small toddlers.

Luckily, the ticket lady replied that it wouldn't be a problem, and Hermione could be upgraded to first class, for a total cost of 17 quid (25 American dollars, roughly, and 170 yen, which Hermione astutely calculated). Hermione figured it was only a few extra quid, it was a one-time one-way expense, and she deserved a special treat for having been treated like crap and walked all over and taken for granted, for so long. Hermione needed to relax, and the journey's start was an excellent place to begin.

So, Hermione was now seated inside her single room, separated by a door from her other five neighbours, none of which knew her plans in the slightest. She completed her paperwork and school studies four months in advance, passing all of her classes with ease. She was prepared for anything.

Hermione was almost looking forward to this vanishing act—her next task was to schedule the taxi that would take her to the train station, she would ride in first class with the plush velvet seats and pleated lanterns she had refused herself out of frugality mere months before; perhaps she might have tea and biscuits or strong coffee. She pictured herself emerging at the airport, her two bags in hand, ready to face the unpredictabilities of the morrow's eve.

_Would he miss her? Would he cry himself to sleep in the following nights, like she had for the past days?_

Hermione hadn't the faintest idea. The plans continued, for her great escape. It was one of the more difficult parts-this secrecy, given that Hermione was such an outspoken, driven girl. She couldn't handle goodbye parties, but secretly wished that someone out there would miss her when she was gone.


End file.
